


Three Little Words

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, COBB 2020, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Gay Panic! In The Catacombs, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic Mishaps, Penny’s galaxy brain, Romantic tension off the charts, Warning: tears are a reported side effect of this fic, Watford Sixth Year, lots of bickering, truth spell, voice recorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26066959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: When Simon finds the cursed voice recorder while snooping through Baz's stuff and accidentally sets it off, Baz is left voiceless and magicless.Baz is desperate to get his magic back—but when he finds out the solution, he reckons the cure might be worse than the condition.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 79
Kudos: 593
Collections: Carry On Big Bang 2020





	Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/gifts), [Unenthusiastic_mermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unenthusiastic_mermaid/gifts).



> I’m thrilled I finally get to show you guys my COBB!!! 
> 
> Thanks to my partner @phicups for their lovely art! 
> 
> Thanks to all my lovely betas: [@giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu), [@thedaggerrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose), [@sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover), and [@Aristocratic_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocratic_Otter/pseuds/Aristocratic_Otter)!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to [@aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias), who inspired me to write a voice recorder fic after reading her wonderful fic, [The Sound of Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20481287/chapters/48599939). Go check that fic out too for more angsty voice recorder content!
> 
> This fic is also dedicated to Selkie, who is an angel and a true blessing, and who drew me these adorable marshmallows for this fic. Enjoy this adorable fluffy photo she drew me, before we get real angsty up in here:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187986359@N08/50258911293/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this fic!

**Baz**

My time at Watford has been going about as well as could be expected. 

I was thrown headfirst into several wars, all in which my family was assigned the role of villains. I was immediately paired with a scrawny, golden-aura-ed nuclear bomb, who I had expected to hate but, unfortunately, fell irreversibly in love with instead. Puberty came with the regrettable side effect of bloodthirstiness, so I've spent the years simultaneously being disgusted with myself enough to wish that I could **Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright** myself out of my misery, and praying that Simon Snow didn’t _actually_ **Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright** me out of my misery. (Though, realistically, Simon Snow could never manage such a difficult spell. He’d probably get Bunce to do it.) 

Fifth year was a series of unfortunate events that included, but was not limited to: my falling victim to Simon Snow’s habitual stalking; an unexpected battle with a chimera that I was predictably framed for; the Good Guys' quest for five blades (an endeavor that _regularly_ caused Snow to come back to our shared bedroom covered in blood); and Snow getting a proper haircut, which made him fitter than ever, contributing to my dreadful realisation that my feelings towards him are far more longing than hostile. 

The worst part of it is that I know this is actually the _good_ part of my life. These are the memories I’ll carry with me—the ones of Simon Snow’s blustering and bravery and beauty—until everything fades to black on a battlefield. The _worst_ thing will be the last thing: Simon Snow will eventually kill me.

Or maybe the worst aspect is _all of it_ —because, really, the worst part of my life is knowing that, even though Snow is destined to kill me, it doesn’t stop me from loving him desperately.

I’ve accepted this as my reality: that the worst thing Snow has already taken from me is my heart, and the worst thing Snow will eventually take from me is my life. 

I didn’t know how much worse it could get—because I never could have prepared myself for Simon Snow taking my magic. 

* * *

The sight of Snow sitting on my bed with my aunt's cursed voice recorder is nothing short of terrifying.

“Put that down,” I snap, and recognize my misstep immediately; his eyes narrow to slits in my direction. He rises to his feet to face me, and holds the silver voice recorder up high, above his head. His thumb is casually hovering right over the red 'record' button. I will myself not to stare at it—lest he get any ideas about pressing it. 

"What are you plotting?" he asks in a familiar tone. His ' _you are the most evil being I've ever met'_ tone. I'm accustomed to it, but it never fails to skewer my heart. Especially right now, when I'm so very afraid for this fucking idiot. 

"Is it a crime to have personal items in my own bedroom?" I seethe, despite logically knowing I should try to stay calm. (I can't help myself when it comes to him. He's _infuriating_.) "Why were you going through my things in the first place?" 

"I—I wasn't!" he stammers. "I dropped something and just happened to see that you had a box under your bed and—and." He quickly loses all his sheepishness, replacing it with righteousness. "It's obviously something you're trying to hide, right? Or you wouldn't be mad right now."

I force my face to stay impassive. I don't want him to see how scared I am. I bite my tongue to keep my focus (and to keep from screaming at him). "I'm ' _mad',"_ I sneer, my voice dripping in condescension, "because this is an invasion of privacy that violates the Watford Student Code of Conduct."

This throws him off. "The _what?"_

I huff. "We sign a contract at the beginning of each year saying that we promise to follow all the school's rules. One of which is that you won't interfere with your roommate's personal belongings. So, may I have my property back now?" I hold out my hand casually, a show of nonchalance I hope will convince him to back down. 

Instead, Snow decides to completely ignore my question and ask one of his own. "What is it?" His finger is still mere centimeters from the red button. Watching him wave the device around is heart-stopping. Like watching someone play with a loaded gun. (Except Snow doesn't fully realise that's what he's got in his hands—a weapon.) 

"Give it back," I snarl at him, and take a step forward. 

He backs away, knocking himself into the edge of my bed. "No." 

_"Snow."_

"Just tell me what it is, and I'll hand it back," he says, his eyes locked on the recorder. He's lying—if I told him what the device does, he'd go crying to the Mage; then, I'd certainly be expelled. (Crowley, what would my father say?)

"What do you _think_ it is? It's obviously a tape recorder," I reply condescendingly. "But, more importantly, it's _not yours,_ so if you could _kindly—"_

"No! It's obviously something evil." ( _Merlin._ Why did Snow choose _today_ of all days to be uncharacteristically astute?) "What is it, really? Tell me the truth." 

"The truth is: I want my recorder back. Excuse me for not wanting the Mage's lapdog to play with my things. Get your own toys." I take another step closer to him. We're only two arm's-length apart now. 

"This is magic. I can tell; I can feel it."

"Well spotted," I respond, even though I can't actually feel the magic for myself. (It must be one of Snow's Greatest Mage superpowers.)

"Is it a weapon?" He asks, his voice rising an octave in alarm. "Is this one of your plots to—"

I can't wait any longer; I can't stand watching him with the cursed device for one more moment. I lunge for him, and he falls back onto my bed with an _oomph!_ We're touching everywhere; my hip covering his, my legs wrapping around his body, my left hand pushing down on his shoulder. For half a second I fear the Anathema will kick in—until I remember it cares about intention, not action, and my aim right now is to save him from making a careless, disastrous mistake. He's pinned down, but he's still got the recorder extended above his head as far from me as he can manage—the stubborn fucking prat.

"Let _go_ ," I insist. Fear has crept into my voice, and Snow mistakes it for something nefarious. (He always does.) 

"No, I won't... I won't let you do… whatever you're planning on doing!" 

_I'm trying to save you from yourself!_ I scream inside my head. _You beautiful, brave,_ _stupid prat!_

"You stupid prat!" is all I say aloud, and push Snow's shoulder down to get myself closer to the recorder. My fingers are about to reach it—I'm just centimeters away from grabbing it—when, in his attempts to move the device further away from me, he presses down on the red 'record' button.

My body stiffens, and I look at him in horror. I made Fiona fess up to what the recorder did back in fifth year. I've been hiding it under my bed for a reason—so it couldn't be used on Snow. So no one could steal his voice, steal his _magic._

But I didn't account for Simon trying to damn himself. He's opening his mouth—surely to accuse me of plotting or to call me a prat back. It doesn't matter what he's about to say. What matters is that he's pressed the red button, and he's about to speak. 

The sound is wrenched out of my body against my will. "Simon, no!" 

I feel a horrible sensation at the back of my throat as soon as my demand is out. It's like a hook on my vocal chord, a ripping of words that takes my breath away. I push Snow away and stagger back off of him, clutching at my neck to open up my airway—even though I know deep in my gut that it's not actually oxygen I'm lacking.

"Baz?" Snow's voice is small, but clear. The recorder didn't take his voice.

I try to respond, but all that comes out of my mouth is the sound of silence. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187986359@N08/50259501616/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Simon**

"So, to recap—" Penny starts for the third time, and Baz throws a book at her head. 

She manages to narrowly dodge it, but I still scream "Hey!" at him. He turns his dagger-eyed rage towards me, and I resist the urge to step back in alarm. (The trick with Baz is to stand your ground. Not **Stand Your Ground.** But to, like, pretend not to care when he hurtles sharp insults your way.) (Except—fuck. Baz can't actually _say_ any of his insults right now.) 

"Alright," Penny says diplomatically, clapping her hands together. "We are all aware of the… situation." 

Baz crosses his arms and sits down onto his bed with an exaggerated huff of annoyance. He’s scowling so dramatically, I'm afraid his face may get stuck like that. He's looked like this since the incident—horribly and persistently miserable. I even thought he might cry at first, after he screamed ' _Simon, no!'_ and his voice was torn from his throat with an awful ripping sound. 

I should be happy. That I fucked up his grand plan to curse me, I mean. I should be smug right now. 

So why do I feel like puking?

Penny conjures up a white board and a dry erase marker and holds it out for Baz—slowly, like she's approaching a wounded animal. "Why don't you tell us what kind of magic was in that recorder?"

Baz snatches the board and marker from Penny's hands and starts writing rapidly. When he holds it up, it reads: _How the fuck did you get into Mummer's Tower?_

"Not exactly priority one, Basil," Penny quips. 

Baz erases the board with the sleeve of his blazer (an uncharacteristically messy gesture from him), and starts writing again: _No girls allowed!_

Penny rolls her eyes. "How about this," Penny says delicately. "Truce? Just until we figure out how to fix this?" 

Baz gives another over-dramatic huff. He writes, _I don’t see how I’ve got a choice in the matter._ I open my mouth to respond but Baz holds up a hand to silence me. I keep my mouth shut (figuratively—it’s literally hanging open, mid-interruption) as he then turns the whiteboard back to himself to add: _Good luck getting Snow to agree to civility. He’s an uncouth imbecile._

I flush. I don’t know what ‘uncouth’ means, but I can fairly assume it’s an insult. “Shut up, Baz.”

An uncomfortable silence falls upon us as we all soak in what I just said. 

“Uh—I mean—I didn’t—what I meant was— uh—” I stammer out half-starts as Baz writes furiously. 

His usually-perfect handwriting is sloppy when he turns the board to reveal what he's scribbled: _JUST GO AWAY._

I'm tempted to do it—leave Baz to clean up his own mess. I open my mouth to say so, but what actually comes out is: "No. We're going to get your voice back."

I don't know what makes me say it—misguided guilt or pity or something else. All I know is that the idea of Baz without his voice, without his _magic_ , turns my stomach. 

Baz is staring at me, his expression blank. I wish I could read his eyes—that they could tell me all the things he can't say out loud—but they're as unrelentingly flat as always. 

"Why don't you start by telling us where you got that?" Penny suggests, but Baz is shaking his head before she even finishes the question. 

"Well," Penny says, in a voice that tells me she expected as much from him. "Then tell me what it's used for." 

Baz raises an eyebrow at her and points to his own mouth as an explanation. 

"I've noticed that it's taken away your ability to speak, thanks. I'm asking for specifics."

Baz writes: _It takes away the next Mage's voice who speaks after you press 'record.'_

"For how long? How do you end the curse? _Can_ you end the curse?" Penny fires off her questions in rapid succession. 

Baz moves to respond to her interrogation, but Penny lets out a sigh of exasperation before he can even start writing. 

“This whiteboard business is quite slow, isn't it?” Penny complains. “There’s actually a spell I’ve invented that I’ve been dying to try out…” Penny raises her hand to point at Baz with her ring. He opens his mouth, as if to protest, but he—well—he _can’t,_ so Penny manages to cast her spell on him: **“Penny For Your Thoughts.”**

The magic washes over Baz. Above his head, in purple lettering and in the same handwriting as was on the whiteboard, words begin to form. _It’s very rude to cast spells on people without their permission._

“Yes, well. Desperate times,” Penny responds with a shrug. 

Baz scowls. _I wouldn’t call the situation of your impatience 'desperate times.'_

“You made that spell up?” I ask Penny. 

“Oh, yes! I’ve been doing my research for my eighth year spell a bit early." She beams proudly; she's always thrilled to be asked about magic theory. "Mages have been trying to work it for centuries with unfortunate results. But I think it’ll only work for me because I found the true origin of the phrase—it’s been debated among Mages for centuries—and plus, because I’m, well, _Penny.”_

Above Baz’s head, words form all at once. _You are a brilliant Mage_. I gape at him; I’ve never heard him give anyone—least of all Penny, his closest competitor for top of the class—a compliment. Baz himself looks surprised at his own unexpected admission. 

“Thanks, Basil,” Penny says with a smirk. “I forgot to mention—the spell will only show your _true_ thoughts. You can’t lie.”

There’s a brief pause, and then: _What the fucking fuck is wrong with you? Truth spells are illegal!_

“It’s not _exactly_ a truth spell. It’s more of an anti-lying spell. You’re not compelled to share your thoughts.”

As if to make her point for her, no words form above Baz’s head. 

“See!” She says. “You can still keep your opinions to yourself, if you wish to.”

_I wish I could hex you right now_ appears above Baz's head. I'd usually be livid at Baz for threatening Penny, but right now, while he can't do magic, it's just sad. 

"Alright," Penny says, clearing her throat. I can tell Baz's comment depresses her a little too—I'm sure she's thinking about how dreadful it would be to lose her own magic. (No one else in the world would take it as poorly as Pen would). "Tell us all about the recorder now." 

_I told you all I know already._

Penny scoffs derisively. "You don't know how to fix this? And you just—what? Left the recorder lying around for anyone to stumble upon and accidentally use?"

Baz clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes at Penny. _I didn't leave it 'lying around.' It was hidden under my bed. Snow found it while he was snooping through my personal belongings._

"You would have used it on me if I hadn't found it!" I accuse him. 

He turns his head to set his angry grey eyes on me. _No. I wouldn't have._

My uneasy stomach turns to lead as soon as I read the words. I'd accuse him of lying if I didn't know he couldn't. 

"Okay, okay," Penny says consolingly, punctuating her words with a little cough, since my magic has quickly made the room smoky. "Let's just focus on fixing this now. Basil, can you contact… whoever it is that you got the recorder from?" 

It's a moment before the word _Yes_ appears above Baz's head. He gets up from his bed and heads to his wardrobe. He pulls open the drawer he keeps his pants in and I avert my eyes, feeling a blush creep up my neck. He fishes out an iPhone and begins typing a message. 

I want to tell him that electronics aren't allowed, but I reckon this isn't the time. 

“In the meantime, we need to do research. We’ll head to the library and get books on these sorts of curses.” I’m not surprised that her suggestion is to go to the library; it’s her go-to first step in all our missions. “Basil, can you put the recorder in a safe place in the meantime?”

Baz makes perfect eye contact with me as he reaches under his bed, grabs the box the recorder was previously in, and tucks the recorder in its box back under his bed. No words form over his head, but he raises one eyebrow at me. I frown.

“Good,” Penny says, ignoring Baz’s passive aggression. “Let’s get to work, boys.”

* * *

**Baz**

I'd never say this out loud, but this is at least partially my fault.

(I suppose I really can't say it out loud. Oh, Crowley.) 

I check my phone for the twentieth time, but I still have zero new messages. Fiona's supposed to be meeting her old uni mates in Ibiza for a music festival, and she's been known to leave her phone in her flat in London when she's on holiday. Knowing her, she probably won't be replying to my texts until late next week. I haven't a clue how I'm supposed to hide the fact that I'm not talking for that long. (And that's assuming Fiona will know how to get my voice back.) (That's also assuming it's possible to get my voice back.) 

I've been staring at the same page of _How to Break Common Curses_ for twenty minutes now. I had expected teaming up with Batman and Robin would be more interesting than your average study session. Snow regularly comes back to the room with torn jumpers and gargoyle blood on his trainers and odd magical artifacts in his book bag. But, by the looks of it, it seems like each one of their hero's journeys begins with a deep dive into Watford's library. (Perhaps I should have expected as much—Snow's partner in crime _is_ Penelope Bunce.) 

Even so, this shouldn't be taking so long. 

I let out a huff of annoyance to signal my distaste for our research. They can't hear me; neither of them look up from their own reading. I slam the book down with a loud _thud!_ —not worried about disturbing other students, since Bunce cast both **Quiet As A Mouse** and **Nothing To See Here** on our corner of the library. Both their heads jerk up in alarm at my interruption. 

"Merlin, Basil!" Bunce exclaims with a start. "What?" 

_This is pointless. The answer isn't going to be in these books._ I can hear the words written above me in my head like I've spoken them aloud. It's a clever spell of Bunce's, if I do say so myself (though, I won't make the mistake of admitting it again). 

"Well, what do you suggest?" Snow asks, his tone bordering on superior. I can tell he's thinking, ' _We're the experts on missions, here.'_ (I want to remind him that his missions tend to take the entirety of the school year, but I don't want to start a fight over something he's not even said out loud.)

_We're not going to find the book we need in the library. If it's here, it'll be in the Mage's office._

Penny looks like she's considering my point, but Snow protests. "You're not allowed in the Mage's office!" 

_Does that really matter?_

"Yes!" 

_It's my mother's office and my mother's books._

If there's going to be a book on the recorder, it'll be there. I'm sure of it. 

Snow opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, I impulsively respond, _I'm going. I'd rather not be a mute my whole life just because I had the misfortune of rooming with a boy who can't seem to mind his own business._

Snow wisely keeps his mouth shut after that. 

* * *

Creeping up the stairs with Simon Snow at my heels is a bit of a rush. Quite frankly, I've never felt the urge to join in on one of Snow's misadventures—I mean, I do have a life outside of Simon Snow, after all. (Not much of one. But I’ve always reckoned that it’s better to spend my free time playing football and practicing violin rather than investigating selkies and dueling goblins.) I never fully appreciated this aspect of it, though: the loud thud of his heartbeat as we sneak through the darkness together, the intoxicating bonfire smell of his magic, the delicious adrenaline of a secret shared with Simon Snow…

I'm feeling thoroughly infatuated, up until the moment he trips on a step and spits out a Normal curse. 

I turn and see he's sprawled out on his hands and knees, and I roll my eyes at his oafishness. _Careful, Snow. This is supposed to be a stealth operation._

He pouts and gets to his feet with a hand from Bunce.

"Are you sure the Mage isn't here?" Bunce whispers to Snow (a bit late, I'd say, since we're already here). 

Snow grunts in the affirmative. (It is appalling that I recognize the meanings of his caveman noises.) "He's got a Council meeting tonight, and he always stays in his flat in London afterwards."

I place my hand on the doorknob, and Snow tries to stop me. I brush him off and push open the door. 

"How'd you do that?" He questions, perplexed. I flick the light switch on manually with a twinge of annoyance (I have a habit of using magic to do that, normally). 

_This is my mother's office. The wards are spelled to let me in._

"Do you sneak in here all the time?" Snow asks suspiciously. 

_Yes. I rifle through the Mage's drawers in my spare time. One time, I found Fifty Shades of Grey in that locked cabinet._

I notice my words are being displayed in italics; that must be how Bunce's spell expresses sarcasm. I'm pleased the incantation hasn't taken away that aspect of communication. I'm not sure how I'd get through working with Snow and Bunce without giving them their fair share of snarkiness. 

Snow rolls his eyes, and I turn to my mother's bookcase. It's got floor to ceiling shelves with hundreds of books.

Memories of my mother letting me hold my tea parties on the floor of this office with my Paddington bear and toy kettle set come to me unbidden. Of how, afterwards, she'd always take a break from her paperwork and help me choose a book to read for the evening. ' _Tell me if anything frightens you, little puff,'_ she'd say in her raspy voice, when I would pick a particularly mature novel. 

'Mother,' I wish I could confess to her now, 'I'm frightened.' 

_I know a spell,_ I tell them, _to find the book more quickly._

"So do I," Bunce says with an air of superiority. "I can never do it in the library. I did once in second year and the librarian threw a bloody fit over it." Bunce rolls her eyes. I remember hearing about the incident; Bunce had made dozens of books fly off the shelf at once. One of them hit Gareth in the head. (Maybe that's why he's so daft). **"Fine-tooth comb, voice recorder."**

I prepare for an upheaval of epic proportions and duck for cover. But only one book flies off the shelf. Bunce smiles with both her eyebrows raised, self-satisfied. 

_Sod off_ , I respond, but she doesn't see my words. She's skimming the page of the black book in her hands, her eyes flying all over the page for the answer we're looking for. Her eyes widen as she reads. 

I consider telling her to hand it off, but she won't see it; she's too engrossed in reading. Instead I rip the book from her hands. I scan the page for the relevant passage, and my heart sinks when I find it. 

_The Alssariq Voice Recorder was allegedly created by Rashida Pitch to take away a Mage's voice, therefore taking away their ability to do magic. When the Egyptian Coven became aware of this device, they attempted to confiscate it, but were unsuccessful in their attempts. Its current whereabouts are unknown. The only known remedy is for the cursed individual to share their deepest, darkest secret with the Mage who took their voice. Only then will their voice (and their magic) be returned._

I hear Snow asking Penny what it says, frustration sharpening his tone. I don't care about that; I stare at the page until my eyes go blurry.

My biggest secret is something I swore I'd never admit. Not even at the last moment of my life. I was supposed to steal a kiss, and leave the world with those three little words forever unsaid. 

I realise, a moment too late, that my unclear vision is a result of tears forming. I wipe quickly at them, but I think Snow catches me, because his incessant questions stop.

I slam the book shut, set it down on the Mage's desk, and storm out of the office. 

* * *

**Simon**

It's over two hours before Baz comes back to our bedroom. Penny and I are waiting for him on my bed, and I involuntarily stand when he enters the room. His face is set in a deep scowl, and he won't make eye contact with me. He makes a beeline for the en suite, shutting and locking the door behind him. I flop down onto the bed in frustration. 

"I don't know why he's being such a git. We found the solution," I mutter to Penny after a stretch of silence. 

"And the solution is emotional intimacy," Penny points out. "That's enough to make any man huffy." 

I sigh in annoyance. "Well, he's going to have to get over it if he wants his voice back." 

Baz comes storming out of the bathroom. He's got on a green headband he often wears when he plays football, and his skin is dewy. (He must have been doing his skin routine. Which I don't understand _why_ he does—do vampires _really_ need to moisturize?) 

Purple letters in Baz's handwriting spell out: _You know that I've been cursed mute, not deaf. I can hear your whinging perfectly well._

"Good, I wanted you to," I retort, though it's not true. 

He sneers as his response, but no more words come up above his head. He must be holding back what he wants to say—which comes out as a bit of a shock, because Baz isn't usually one to hold back his insults, and this feels particularly like a moment where he'd want to let me know how worthless he thinks I am or threaten to feed me to the merwolves. 

"C'mon, Baz. Just tell us your secret." I try to sound understanding, but Baz's sneer doesn't slip from his face. 

_My secrets are none of your business. Just like that recorder, it's private._

Most of my patience flies out the window at that. "The recorder was illegal in the first place! You shouldn't have had it!" 

_It's not illegal. Just frowned upon._

"That's bollocks, and you know it. If the Mage knew you had it, he'd confiscate it in an instant." 

_The Mage would take my family's entire estate if he could. You're not being as persuasive as you think you are right now._

"Is your pride really worth more to you than your magic, Baz?" I exclaim, pulling at my hair. Again, he doesn't respond. 

"Basilton," Penny says in a measured tone. "This is the only way. Just get it over with, and tell us. I mean… we already know." She adds the last bit in a whisper. 

Baz stiffens at the implication of her words. I feel stupid for not realizing it earlier; his biggest secret is that he's a vampire. That must be why he's so reluctant to admit it.

Though… I already know that. He knows I already know that. So he might as well just say it. 

"Yeah, yeah. It's alright. We won't tell anyone, right Pen?" I say. 

Penny nods at Baz, but he's looking at me.

_Really, Snow? You, of all people, won't tell anyone?_

He's got a right to be skeptical; I have already told everyone that he's a vampire. I even tried to start a school club of students hell-bent on proving it, but Ms. Possibelf shut that down pretty quickly. (Plus, not even Penny showed up to my first meeting.) Nonetheless, I pretend his question wasn't sarcastic, and answer earnestly. "I won't tell anyone. I promise." 

Baz pauses, and I think he might be considering it. Until he responds, _I will find another way. I am the best Mage at this school. If anyone is going to figure out another solution, it's me._

Penny scoffs at Baz's 'best Mage' comment. "Wow," she says sarcastically. "And he can't lie, so you know he really means it." 

_I do._ After a moment, he adds. _I guess it doesn't hurt that you're helping either._

The corner of Penny's lip turns up. "High praise, coming from you."

_Don't get used to it,_ he remarks with a smirk. Penny huffs out a laugh. 

My skin goes itchy with something like spite—of course he can manage to be civil with Penny and not me. "Just admit you're a vampire, Baz!" I blurt out, returning the tension to the room in an instant's time. 

Baz storms off back into the en suite, slamming the door shut so hard it rattles the room. 

* * *

On Sunday night, Baz cracks. 

The three of us are in our bedroom, searching through books we stole—though Penny is calling it _borrowing—_ from the Mage. We're looking for another cure, just as we have been for the past forty-eight hours. I think it's useless; if there was another solution, the first book we found would have said. 

I sneak a glance at Baz. He's glaring at the wall by his bed, like he has been for the last fifteen minutes. He looks tired, worn at the edges. He hasn't been sleeping very well—last night I caught him awake at one in the morning, just staring at me. (I guess I haven't been sleeping very well, either; I was awake to catch him after all.) We kept awkward eye contact for only a moment before he sighed and turned around to face the wall. But he didn't fall asleep—I can tell the difference between his breathing while he's awake and his breathing while he's asleep.

How many times have I wished Baz would just shut up? How many times have I cursed his stupid posh accent and his flawless elocution and his cutting remarks? The number has to be in the thousands, after all these years.

Now I would do anything to hear him say something, _anything._

Maybe because I know that this is all my fault. 

My self-pity session is interrupted by a pen to the head. 

"Hey!" I complain reflexively. Baz has turned his attention from his blink-182 poster to me. 

_We have class tomorrow._

"Yeah, I know," I say, rubbing my cheek where his pen hit me. It doesn't _actually_ hurt, but it'd be nice if he was sorry. "Anathema, by the way." 

_Don't be a baby_ , he replies with a roll of his eyes. _I can't go to class if I can't talk._

"Just don't raise your hand," I suggest.

He narrows his eyes. _That would be suspicious._

"True. You are a teacher's pet." 

He looks appalled at that. _I am not!_

"If you can't go one day without showing off that you understand the full history of every spell we go over, you kind of are." 

He scoffs. _So, have either of you found anything yet?_

"No," Penny says with a sigh. "Nothing new." 

"Baz," I say. "Let's just get this over with." 

Baz purses his lips, considering. 

"What if we cast **An Englishman's Word Is His Bond?** " Penny suggests. 

_I can't make a promise,_ Baz replies, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

"All the better for you, then. We'll be making all the promises."

Baz thinks this over for just a moment before nodding. Penny takes his hand and promises not to tell anyone whatever secret breaks the curse. Then she gestures for me to take Baz's hand. 

I do, and he's cold. I know he's a vampire, but the chilliness of his skin always strikes me with surprise. No wonder he's always bitching about the window. I suppose I could consider being kinder about it—but I run burning hot. 

"I promise," I say, looking Baz dead in the eyes. Though the eye contact is a bit uncomfortable, I want him to see I'm serious. "I won't tell any of the secrets you share with me from now until the curse is broken." 

Penny's magic washes over me, the thick taste of sage heavy on my tongue. Baz pulls his hand away quickly afterwards, and I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. 

"So," Penny says, clapping her hands together. "Secret time." 

Baz sighs, and looks down at his trainers. He looks almost shy right now, I realise with an uncomfortable lurch in my stomach. Vulnerable isn't a word I thought I'd ever use to describe Baz. Detached, indifferent, immovable: that's more like the Baz I'm used to. I've never even seen him cry before all of this—even when I broke his nose back in fifth year, he just glared at me with dry eyes as his nose gushed blood. I don't think I'd even ever seen him _sad._

But I think maybe that would be a pretty good word to describe him now. I've never thought about it much, whether Baz gets sad. I suppose he must. His mother's dead, and he's a vampire. That's at least two sad things in his life. 

Are there other things I don't know about him, even after all this time?

Baz finally looks up, and his eyes are resolute now. _Okay, I'm going to say it now,_ appears above his head. 

"Great," Penny says. "Let's hear it." 

He opens his mouth to tell his secret, to say the thing I've been asking him to admit for years now.

Except, that's not what happens—he doesn't respond with "I'm a vampire." His mouth forms different words as purple lettering appears above his head. 

_I am gay._

I repeat the confession uncomprehendingly three times in my head before I understand what I'm reading. 

"Ohh...kay?" I say involuntarily, still staring at the words. I look down to Baz's thunderous expression, and immediately recognize that was not an appropriate reaction to his coming out. "I mean—I just mean—well. That's not exactly a _dark_ secret?" 

The words _It is to my father_ appear above Baz's head—though just as quickly as they came, they disappear. 

My stomach flips uncomfortably. I try to catch Baz's eye, but he's gone back to studying the floor. 

"Thanks for telling us that, Baz. Your secret's safe with us," Penny says, her voice even and supportive. 

_You've literally done a spell forcing you to keep your mouth shut, but thanks,_ appears over Baz's head. I'd think it was sarcastic, but it's not in italics. (This spell of Penny's is really advanced. If I were Baz, I'd be worried about my class ranking.) 

"So, that obviously didn't work," I say it quietly, but my voice is loud in the silent room. "I think you just need to tell us the truth." 

That makes him look up—so he can glare at me. _That was the bloody truth._

"Yes, I know," I say. It's not like he can lie with the spell; plus, that would be a really weird thing to lie about. "But it's not, you know. _The_ truth." 

_Maybe I don't want to tell "the" truth._ His expression is petulant—his lips pouty and his eyebrows set in a stubborn furrow. _Maybe I want to live in an alternate timeline where I never met you._

That hurts more than I expect it to. Sure, Baz is the worst, but I'd never wish I didn't know him. 

I open my mouth—I don't know for what, whether my plan is to apologize or insult him back—but it doesn't matter, because Baz is already heading towards the door in a huff.

He pauses at the threshold, turning his head to make eye contact with me. _You don't get it. You get your fucking fairytale destiny with Wellbelove, but love is not that easy for everyone else._

"I—I don't—I'm not even with—you know that we—" I can't get the words 'Agatha and I broke up' out of my mouth, because I'm so taken aback with the direction of this conversation. 

Baz doesn't wait for me to find my words. He turns his back on me, but the purple words linger above his retreating form. _For once in your damned life, do not follow me._

He flies down the stairwell, taking them two at a time. He leaves a horrible silence in his wake, and even though I'm dying to run after him, I don't move a muscle. 

* * *

**Baz**

I've chosen to forgo class in favor of moping down in the Catacombs. 

I suppose I _could've_ gone to lessons. I could've feigned a migraine to explain away my silence—and I wouldn't even really be faking, because the stress of my predicament really does make me feel like someone's taken a sledgehammer to my temples. 

But I decided, instead, that I wanted to sulk in Le Tombeau des Enfants. I snuck into the room after Snow had fallen asleep last night, woke before he could demand anything of me again, and then came straight here to waste the day away. I usually hide my whiskey stash here, but I drank it all last month on my mother's birthday. (A fact I forgot about when I came down here; I was livid to discover the empty bottle and realise my foolish day-drinking plan was thwarted.) 

Now, I’m just sitting here silently, on the floor of a mass grave. One which, in another world, I could have ended up buried in. I wonder whether my mother would have preferred that—a son remembered as a tragic casualty of vampires, rather than a tragic vampire himself. 

I press the palms of my hands to the back of my eyelids and try to push my traitorous tears back into my face. I've already cried more times than I can count today; my eyes feel papery and raw, and it's slightly painful to swallow with my scratchy throat. 

I don't know what to do—I need my magic. It's a part of me; it's who I am. It's my connection to my mother. When I need to feel her alive inside of my heart, I light a match and blow on the tinder. 

Without magic, I'm just a vampire, the villain. I'm nothing of the boy my mother loved. 

But telling Simon Snow I'm in love with him seems impossible: a feat beyond reason, beyond nature, beyond gravity. Revealing my sexuality to him already took all my courage, and now I'm drained dry. 

Unfortunately, Snow doesn't care that I'm already sitting down here, undone by him; he wants to keep pulling at the fragile threads of my heart. 

"Baz!" Snow bellows. "I know you're down here!" 

I hear his thundering footsteps echoing down the tunnel. His Chosen One missions must never require the element of surprise; he's about as subtle as a screaming banshee.

I shut my eyes, resting my head on the stone wall behind me, and await the inevitable. 

"Ba—" His shout cuts off; I don't need to open my eyes to know that he's in the room with me. "What are you _doing?_ " 

_What does it look like, Snow?_ I wish I could snarl at him—though, I'm sure if I did, my voice would come out frayed at the edges.

"Well," he says, with far more self-righteousness than he's reasonably owed in this situation. "It looks like you're pouting." 

My eyes fly open so I can glare at him. The ambiance of the tomb heightens the drama of this moment—surrounded by arches of stone and miniature skulls encased in the walls, this macabre setting is a fitting stage for a horrible detonation between us. 

_Pitches don't pout,_ I respond. 

"Your face hasn't gotten the message," he says, with another step towards me. The déjà vu strikes me, and I'm reminded of the time he found me here back in fifth year—drunk and miserable and morbid. This time's worse, because I don't have the alcohol to dull the heartache. (Though, at least he isn't brandishing a sword this time.) 

I'm tempted to storm out in a huff, but I've done that far too many times these last couple of days. So instead, I let out a heavy exhale, and resign myself to this conversation. _What do you want, Snow?_

"I haven't seen you all day," he says, almost petulantly.

_Now who's pouting?_ I retort. 

"Sod off." I raise an eyebrow at him, and move to take his advice. Snow heaves an exaggerated sigh. "No—that's not what I—Baz. _Please."_

His 'please' rattles me—I don't think he's ever said that to me before. I feel the earnestness of it in my gut. I'm careful not to let myself respond.

He keeps talking. "I'm—I'm sorry," he stutters, and takes a deep breath. "For going through your things. And for not listening to you when you told me to give it back. And for…" He trails off, looking like he's about to cry. Over me— _for_ me. 

His pity is more horrifying than his prying demands for my secret. It's unbearable. 

_You're sorry for taking my voice? Really?_ I snap. _You were planning on killing me; how is this any worse?_

"I— I wasn't planning—I—" he splutters, looking stricken. I scoff. 

_This is what everything's been leading up to! A final battle, with only one of us left standing! Well, congratulations, you've won, like I've always known you would!_ I'm not screaming—I can't—but it still feels like my outburst is ringing in the air, like I've thrown live ammunition onto a house fire. 

"I wouldn't want to win like this," Snow says, looking devastated. I want to punch the expression clean off his face. "Never like this." 

_How'd you picture it then, Snow? Were you going to go off on me? Stab me with your sword? No, wait, I know. You were going to run a wooden stake through my heart._ My words taste bitter in my mouth, despite the fact my lips are motionless. _You should use fire instead—cast_ **_Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright_ ** _, and put me out of my misery._

Snow's shaking his head frantically, and the tears are threatening to spill at the corner of his eyes. He can't seem to find his words, despite the fact that he's not the one spelled mute here. 

_Why not? I'm a monster, Snow. You've said it yourself time and time again._ I sneer at him. _What do you want from me? Do you want me to admit it?_

"Baz—" he chokes out with wet cheeks. 

I really try to scream it. I attempt to will the confession to drag itself up and out of my throat, to let these three words be the right ones to break the recorder's curse. 

But it's not my biggest secret, so the words come out in purple handwriting above my head, just like I knew they would. 

_I'M A VAMPIRE._

Snow looks surprised—not at the content of my admission, but at the fact that it's written above my head. "That should have worked," he whispers. 

_Well, it didn't._ I look up at the ceiling so my angry tears don't spill down my cheeks. I wipe at my eyes with the sleeves of my blazer, trying to pretend I'm just running my hand through my hair. _I knew it wouldn't._

I only have two options here: tell Simon my secret, or live without my voice.

A part of me wants to scream it; to get the horrible confession over with. To let him see me—all of me—and realise that all my animosity and cruelty has all been a pathetic show. I could do it now; I could watch his face alight with the knowledge that I've only been play-acting the villain to conceal how desperately I secretly want to be the romantic lead.

But the idea of saying those words brings a fierce wave of shame and embarrassment and vulnerability crawling up my throat. My airway clogs with all the overwhelming emotion, and I know I can't do it—I just can't. 

I look him dead in the eyes, and, for once, I make no effort to hide my devastation from him. _You've ruined me, Simon Snow._

With that, I leave Snow alone in the Catacombs.

* * *

**Simon**

My heart is pounding in my throat; I think I might throw it up on the dusty Catacombs floor. 

Baz's words echo around my head, which is absolutely ridiculous, considering he didn't—couldn't—speak any of them out loud. But I know his voice so well, just as well as my own, so I could hear the timbre and tone and intonation of every horrible truth he threw at me. 

_'Cast Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright, and put me out of my misery.'_

_'I'm a monster.'_

_'You've ruined me, Simon Snow.'_

I wish I could pretend this was all a trick or a plot—comfort myself with the knowledge that Baz just enjoys making sport of fucking with my head. But he had to have meant every word, or else Penny's spell wouldn't have let him say any of it. 

A sob rips out of me, sudden and harsh. I raise my hand to stifle it, but it spills out of my lips and around my fingertips, echoing loudly off the stone walls of the Catacombs. 

I never would have wanted this. 

I knew Baz and I were supposed to fight at the final battle; I've been told that was expected of us since I was a young, lost boy of only eleven. But I never really thought it through. I never imagined our paths all the way down to the final conclusion, to the irrevocable choice, to the bitter end. 

Baz has obviously thought of it plenty—and he thinks I'm going to kill him. 

My body recoils from the thought, like it's a physical pain, a punch to my gut and throat and heart. The imagery makes its way into my thoughts like a parasitic virus: Baz on the ground, run through with the Sword of Mages. Baz, growing colder until he's frozen like a beautiful ice sculpture. Baz, taking his last breath at my feet, by my hands. 

I would never—would I? 

I couldn't. I know now that I couldn't possibly go through with it. 

I'd miss him too much. 

The realisation takes my breath away—the reality of my feelings for Baz violently grabs me by the heart. There's a reason that I'm so obsessed with Baz's every step, and it's not really that I think he's always plotting. There's no logical explanation for insisting on showing up to his football games, or for craving whiffs of his cedar and bergamot shampoo, or for staring at his peaceful expression while he sleeps. 

No explanation except for the truth: my own biggest secret, kept secret even from myself. 

I fancy Baz. 

I feel like the world's been tilted on its axis, like everything's upside down—but also like nothing has changed but my own awareness. How long have I wanted this? Wanted _him?_ I've been following him around like a clueless, lovestruck puppy since third year, at least. He's occupied a majority of my brainspace almost since we shook hands on the first day of Watford. 

I've been so convinced that he's the bad guy. Ever since he made it clear he didn't want to be friends, I've been so suspicious of him. Hasn't it always been him provoking me? It certainly felt that way every time I'd catch his inscrutable gazes, every time I'd watch his lips curl with haughty superiority. 

But it wasn't his fault this time. This time, I snooped through his things, took the recorder, and insisted on knowing what it did. I'm the one who pushed the button, I'm the one who set it off. 

He's the one who saved me from losing my own voice. _'Simon, no!'_ he screamed, and it was him who lost his magic instead of me. 

_Seven hells._ I have to make this right. 

* * *

**Baz**

I finish packing up my beauty products in the en suite, letting out a heavy sigh looking at my toiletry bag, filled to the brim. I technically don't need to bring all of these, but I have no idea how long I'll be gone, and I'm better safe than sorry. 

My plan is to catch a pixie taxi—a flying car you can summon with a **Hit The Road** —and hide out at Fiona's place in London until she gets back from Ibiza. If anyone will know a counterspell that the Pitches have kept secret, it's my aunt. (She's the one who taught my father the family spells to keep the wraiths from destroying the house after my mother died, and now they're more nuisance than threat.) 

I’m ready to leave the en suite—until I catch a whiff of a blazing forest fire. I roll my eyes to the ceiling—Snow must be back from the Catacombs, where I left him an hour ago, slack jawed and weepy. Hopefully, he'll have pulled himself together by now. I'm not sure if my heart can survive a round two. 

With a deep breath, I come out of the loo with my head high and shoulders back, trying to appear nonchalant. (I don't want a repeat of my outburst during our row.) But when I see Snow pacing and pulling at the ends of his messy curls, I know my hope for a quiet goodbye is beyond futile. 

_Careful now, Snow,_ my words spell out in cursive above my head. _If you keep on like that, you'll be as bald as you are before summer holidays, and that's honestly not your best look._

"Ba-az," he says, his voice cracking in the middle. His expression is frenzied as he stares wide-eyed at the packed suitcase on my bed. "Don't go." 

It takes all my carefully cultivated willpower to suppress my thoughts. My heart's gone soft at the desperate pleading in his voice, but I don't want to go saying anything ridiculous like _'if I had my way, I'd never leave you.'_

"We can work this out—I swear to you, we can fix this." He's nodding his head frantically, with his voice drowning in desperation. "We'll think of _something_ , we have to think of _something—"_

_Snow,_ I reply. _Calm down._ I see his eyes catch my words, but he keeps on pacing. 

"Maybe I can just, like, plug my ears? Maybe I don't have to actually _hear_ it, maybe you just have to _say_ it, or—fuck. Do you think that's not, like, in the spirit of the spell or whatever? Penny always says intent matters the most with magic. Fuck—"

_Snow,_ I repeat, and he's too busy cursing at the floor to read it. 

"No, no, I have another idea. You can spell me, can't you? You can tell me, but then make me forget right after. Cast **Just Forget About It** and—Baz, don't make that face. I know, I know, if you muck it up it'll cause me some brain damage, but you're brilliant enough to cast it, and I'm already daft as is, aren't I? You always say so." His expression is earnest, despite the insanity of his words. My throat becomes wet with emotion, watching him lose it like this. "We can do this. I can—"

_SIMON!_ I'd be yelling if I could speak, and it changes the air in the room as if I were screaming. 

His wild eyes, like blue gemstones on fire, focus on me. His breath catches in his throat like he's choking on air, and an array of emotions flicker on his face—too quickly to properly register. Is he nervous? Scared? Angry? Sad? I'm not sure, but his hands are shaking. 

Without warning, he lunges at me. 

I'm thinking _Anathema!_ for only a second, before his lips are on mine. 

I gasp into his mouth, shock filling my veins for a moment before it's replaced completely with mindless desire. 

Simon's good at this—so very good. He's got one hand tugging at my hair and the other pulling me in at the waist, his grip rough and possessive. His tongue is exploring my mouth confidently, and when I tentatively brush our tongues together, he lets out a low, satisfied groan. 

_Good thing he's got his eyes closed,_ I think, because all of my thoughts are singularly singing his praises. I wouldn't be surprised if I had a litany of compliments and confessions spelled out above my head: _You are the most beautiful person I've ever had the good fortune to meet_ and _This is the most perfect first kiss anyone's ever had_ and _Simon, do you know I've wanted this forever?_

He pulls away from me, and I involuntarily whine in protest. The complaint I've got on the tip of my tongue morphs into a sigh of relief when he relocates his lips to my throat, placing love bites along my neck and whispering my name against my skin. 

"Baz," he sighs like a prayer, and my heart explodes, like fireworks have been set off inside my chest, beating so violently I can feel it in my throat. "Baz." 

I know only one word must be written above my head now: _Simon, Simon, Simon._

I close my eyes and surrender to the pleasure, my hands knotted in his curls, his hands tight around my waist. There's not an inch of space between us, not a single wall or pretense in place. I feel as if I've stripped myself of all my armour, like I've relinquished myself over to him completely. 

Maybe that's why those three words—the right three words, this time—spill out of my mouth without a second thought. 

"I love you," I choke out, my voice rough with disuse and emotion. 

Simon suddenly stops kissing my neck.

A surge of elation rushes through me when I realise my voice is back—immediately followed by a flood of panic. 

I said it. I admitted it. He _knows._

The final confession hangs heavy in the air between us. He's looking up at me in astonishment. I wait for the shock to turn to disgust or pity, unsure which emotion would humiliate me more. 

But Simon Snow is always surprising me—instead, he bares his teeth in a wide, dopey grin. 

"That was the big, bad secret?" he asks, his tone dripping in unmistakable delight. _"Really?"_

My heart pounds in my eardrums. "Evidently, considering I'm speaking out loud now." I'm going for sarcastic, but I'm out of practice, so my words come out shaky with nerves. "What? Do you think this is some convoluted plot?" I demand defensively.

His smile, impossibly, grows larger. He leans in close and cups a lock of hair behind my ear, and I stop breathing in my anticipation. 

"I missed your voice," he whispers against my lips. Then, he closes the gap between us with another kiss. 

(I don't talk much for hours after that. Although, under these new circumstances, I don't much mind being muted.) 

* * *

**Simon**

Walking into the Dining Hall hand in hand with Baz Pitch is a bit of a head rush. 

After a long moment of silence, whispers erupt, spreading like wildfire from table to table. Students and teachers alike are shamelessly gaping at us. A fourth year has dropped their bowl of oatmeal on the ground; the glass has shattered at their feet. The Minotaur's nostrils are flaring so widely that I can see his boogers from a dozen meters away. The only person without a startled expression, to my own surprise, is Agatha, who just rolls her eyes knowingly. (Well, her, and Dev and Niall. When I see an exasperated Dev slip a smug Niall a twenty pound note, I remind myself to tease Baz about that later.) 

I feel my face heat up with a mixture of embarrassment about the attention and pleasure at being seen with my extremely fit boyfriend. Baz, on the other hand, looks as stoic as ever— although, he's squeezing my hand tightly, which tells me he's at least the tiniest bit affected by the spotlight. 

We take a seat at my usual table, where Penny is sitting with her head in a book. She doesn't look up until I wave my hand under her face. 

"Oh, didn't see you there." She turns her gaze over, noticing Baz for the first time. (I suppose she missed our entrance.) "Or you. Done moping about?" 

Baz crosses his arms and huffs. (' _Pitches don't pout',_ my arse.) 

"So, you ready to tell us your secret? We've got a practical exam in Magic Words this afternoon, you know," Penny says to Baz. "Competing's really no fun if your competitor forfeits in order to cosplay Hamlet in the Catacombs."

Baz cocks his head thoughtfully, and then takes an exaggerated deep breath. He opens his mouth, pausing meaningfully before he speaks. (To prolong the suspense, I'm sure. He's such a dramatic prat.) 

"My secret is...." Baz says, in a voice like velvet. Penny's eyebrows fly up her forehead, and I have to stifle the urge to laugh. "I'm more clever than you in every conceivable way."

Penny laughs, and leans over the table to thump him on the arm. "Simon's whinging finally wore you down! What was the real secret?"

Baz sends me a mischievous grin, and my stomach drops like I'm on a roller coaster. I feel my own face light up with a triumphant smile, so wide my cheeks ache with the force of my joy. 

"Oh, ohhhhhh," Penny says, and I can practically see a lightbulb go off over her head. "I really should have seen this coming. That explains why you got so flustered that time Simon had to take off his shirt to fight the merwolves. I thought your excuse— _'I just hate the creatures'_ —was a little weak." 

"Fuck off, Bunce," Baz says with a sip of his tea, the cup hiding his subtle blushing.

Penny passes me my plate of scones—which have gone cold, since I was late to breakfast this morning, too distracted by Baz to properly concentrate on getting ready. 

I turn to Baz and ask, "Can you warm them up for me?"

"I'm not your helper, Snow." He rolls his eyes affectionately, and slips his wand out of his blazer's sleeve. He casts " **Some Like It Hot"** on my scones, while looking me dead in the eye. 

His spell hits the pastry, and spreads across the plate to my hands. I feel the rush of his fire-hot magic run up my fingertips, my arms, straight through my chest. The pleasure-pain of it makes my heart skip a beat, and Baz's eyes tell me he knows just what he's doing to me.

"Wicked," I say, sounding as dazed as I feel. I can't believe I almost took this beautiful power from Baz. There's nothing in the world like his magic mixing with mine. 

"Crowley, you look drunk with it," Baz quips. "Is this why you're dating me? You're addicted to my magic?" 

"Yes, completely," I joke. It's totally untrue—I'd want Baz, even if he was a Normal. Even if he were mute, even if he didn't ever speak to me again, even if he didn't love me back. I think my loving Baz is a constant across every reality. 

Baz says, "You're a menace." But all I hear is his soft voice spelling out the truth for me. 

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading darlings!! 
> 
> Soooo, I’m going to take this time to say: I’ll be taking a hiatus from writing Snowbaz fanfic. My semester’s starting and I’m dealing with some personal stuff, so I’ll probably disappear off the face of the earth for a while. (Pray for me while I endure the grueling hell that is online law school during a pandemic!) I might come back, I might not, but either way, this fandom has meant and still means so much to me, and I appreciate all of your support this past year and a half. Writing Snowbaz has been a bright light during a dark time, and I adore every single human being who has taken the time to reach out to me as a writer and as a person. 
> 
> I might still be semi-active on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com), so if you wanna see a queer girl scream about queer ships, follow me there!


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